Domnall and the Borrowed Child

by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley

  He scowled. What he really should do was check on Nighean, make sure that the mother hadn’t spotted the switch. With her fever and the crazy night, Nighean would sleep all day, so he didn’t think there’d be an issue. But if the woman had the sight . . .

  The thoughts tumbled through his head as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  Domnall was back in the hills shortly before dusk, yawning to himself. He was going to turn sluagh if he kept up these hours. Still, at least he’d managed to avoid Maeve.

  He collected tender greens on his way to the village and was pleased to find the same placid sheep. She nibbled the leaves and let him at her udder without complaint. Domnall whistled an old folk tune, happy that he finally had the hang of this milking thing. It wasn’t so difficult, dealing with a changeling. Proof that there was no reason to forsake the old traditions. He had it covered.

  He hid the jug behind the nettles at the stream’s edge and ran to the village to check on Nighean. As he crept up the stone wall of the hut onto the sod rooftop, he could hear rustling in the hut below. He poked carefully at the edge of the sod until he found a weak point and dug a small hole to allow him to peek in. He spread himself flat and pulled his cloak over himself, camouflage enough in the evening light.

  The comfortable domesticity of the scene in the room pleased him: Nighean in the cot on the far side of the room and the mortals at the table near the window, eating a warm meal. He wondered if they would leave scraps at the doorway, protect the baby they didn’t know was in his keeping. Well, Maeve’s really, but it was down to him to return it.

  The soft mumble of their conversation gave Domnall the courage to crawl across the roof and make a new hole to get a better view of Nighean. Her face was pale, her eyes open but glassy, still firmly in the grip of the fever. He waved, hoping to catch her attention, but she didn’t appear to be aware of her surroundings.

  The woman walked to the fire, holding the old iron pot over the flames. She didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Nighean.

  “Pick her up,” hissed Domnall under his breath. The woman tilted her head as if she’d heard something. Domnall cursed his own foolishness and removed his eye from the hole. It was a novice mistake, risking everything for no good reason. He heard a light tread followed by the rustling of skirts. The footsteps continued towards the hide curtain; she hadn’t properly heard him. Domnall rubbed his face and tried to calm his nerves.

  He peeked again when he heard her voice. “Aye, he’s slept most of the day. Come on then, lad.” She lifted Nighean, completely unaware that instead of her plucked chicken of a screaming baby, she was holding a pale, shivering fae. The mortal put Nighean on her arm and pulled her blouse down. The mortal milk, the only medicine that could cure Nighean.

  The moon broke free of the clouds and covered the village in a silvery light. Domnall stretched his tense muscles and rolled over to look at the sky. He was quite content to lie here and watch, maybe even doze a bit. As long as Nighean could get the milk, the cure would begin. A week, maybe two? And she’d be as healthy as a field mouse.

  Once the mortals slept, maybe he could speak to Nighean, make sure she understood how the magic worked. Not that Domnall was clear on the details. There was no one left in the Sithein who truly understood it, maybe no one left in all the Highlands. The amulet was ancient and unreliable magic, he knew that much. As long as she didn’t speak and moved slowly, it would mask her from the mortals. It helped that the humans saw mostly what they wanted to see, as old Fernie used to say. There were a few with the sight who could see the fae no matter what magic was used, but they were few and far between. He’d only ever known of one mortal with the sight, and that had been long before the Unseelie wars. These days, the fae were their own worst enemies, never mind the mortals.

  The wind picked up and Domnall shivered. He concentrated on the conversation below.

  “I told Magret we’d meet her at the river after porridge tomorrow,” said the woman. She ladled stew into small bowls for both of them. Domnall gagged at the smell and reared back to avoid it. A few deep breaths of the cold evening air and his stomach settled. He looked down his peephole again.

  “Dave said he’d help with the planting, if we needed it, and I’ll nae turn him down,” said the man. “Should get it done tomorrow if we’re fast.” He ran his fingers along her arm. “Means we’ll have a quiet few days.”

  The woman yawned and shook her head. “We won’t, you know. The priest’s coming Thursday. Magret wants to do it right, a proper cèilidh and all. We’ll be out until late tomorrow practicing and I still need to finish stitching that gown.”

  Domnall clutched the sod as a wave of dizziness came over him. If there was a baptism, then he needed to get Nighean out of there, and fast. But when in the name of the sluagh was Thursday?

  Clouds filled the darkening sky as he scurried back to the Sithein, wondering what to do.

  * * *

  “She looked terrible.” Domnall twisted a small branch in his hands and then bent it double until it snapped. He threw the pieces into the small fire they’d built on a flat patch of rock near the Sithein entrance. “I thought she’d have over a week there, there’s no church nearby. I thought she’d get plenty of sleep and milk and I’d bring her home bright and beautiful. Now I’m going to have to get her out fast before they pour magic water on her and ruin everything.”

  Tam proved his brilliance once again by finding an old scroll explaining the human calendar. It took him most of the night but he’d worked out the date. They had two days. There was no choice, of course not, but Nighean needed more milk than that.

  They stood in the meadow in front of the Sithein as the sun rose into a patchy blue sky. The wind was still cold, but Summer was finally on its way. Domnall took a deep breath. “I’m worried about her, Tam.”

  “Can’t you find another crib?”

  Domnall stabbed his new walking stick into the mud. “The baptism, it’s an old magic. Their priest—”

  His words were interrupted by a strange sound echoing through the valley. Domnall covered his ears. “Sounds like a wildcat swallowed a hedgehog,” he shouted.

  “Bagpipes,” shouted Tam back. “It’s a mortal thing that Sy’s been trying to recreate. That’ll be someone learning to play it for the revel.”

  “That’s meant to be music?” Domnall shook his head in disgust and reluctantly dropped his hands from his ears. “It’s awful.”

  “Maybe it just takes some time to learn. Look.” Tam inclined his head towards the Sithein. “There’s Micol.”

  Domnall turned with a smile. She was wearing a pretty shift with a bright blue and green blanket pulled over her shoulders. “Shh,” he said, spitting on his hand and slicking his hair back. “Don’t call her.”

  He moved around the Cu Sith and stepped up behind her. He flashed a quick grin at Tam and then put his hand on Micol’s shoulder. He was rewarded by a small shriek of surprise as she spun around.

  “You’ve got to always keep an eye out if you want to be a scout,” he said. “Relaxing is for when you’re safe in your own bed.”

  She glared at him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to sneak up behind me!”

  “You should though. There’s no room for mistakes.”

  She muttered something under her breath.

  “What was that, young one?” He softened his words with a smile.

  “You are right.” Her words were clipped.

  The wails of the bagpipe finally stopped. Domnall realised he was gritting his teeth and exhaled. “Come sit with us for a spell.”

  Micol followed him, smiling hello at Tam as she sat. “Are all your friends so prickly?”

  Tam grinned in response but Domnall answered with a straight face. “You don’t want to be a liability in a procession. A pretty young fae is a target. The humans will single you out because they are romantic, the sluagh because they’ll think you are the weak link.”

  “Proce
ssion. As if the Elders would let me leave the Sithein to go exploring.”

  “So impatient. Give it time and pay attention to Fin. He’ll train you up.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt.

  Micol straightened her shawl and shrugged, as if she didn’t care.

  “You were telling me about the water,” said Tam. Micol’s face brightened.

  “Aye. The priest will do all the babes in the area. There won’t be a safe cot to be found after the baptisms.”

  “The what?” Micol’s eyes sparkled in excitement.

  “The mortal baptism. They use the church water and it strips away our magic.”

  “What magic?”

  Domnall scowled. Wasn’t Fin teaching them anything? “You know how to keep yourself still and unseen. Any fae can hide from an unthinking mortal. But we have to hide our fledglings if left in human cribs. The Elders have artifacts to help with that, to obscure our true selves without effort.” Fernie had explained all this to him centuries ago but Domnall wasn’t sure how to put it into words. “The mortals also have certain protections, and one of them is the church water. It gives humans the sight.”

  “The sight?”

  He clenched his teeth. No point in bad-mouthing Fin, but honestly, what was he doing with the recruits all day?

  “The sight allows mortals to see us clearly for what we are, no matter the strength of our illusion. I don’t know why they don’t just tell you this stuff. How can you ever survive outside the Sithein if they’re going to pretend that immortality lets you live forever?”

  “Um,” said Tam.

  “You know what I mean.” Domnall scowled. “They hole us up in the Sithein to stay safe and won’t talk about the dangers outside, so if someone does get in trouble, they don’t know how to save themselves. God help us if the sluagh come back.”

  “I wish they would tell us about mortals and magic.” Micol span in a circle, staring up at the sky. Tam’s gaze met Domnall’s before he spoke. “Why don’t you take her with you tonight?”

  She froze. “Oh would you? I promise, I wouldn’t get in the way and I’ll do everything you tell me, I promise!”

  Domnall bit back a grin. She hadn’t even asked where to. “Well . . .”

  It would do her good to get out. Really, it was his duty to help her along. He could take her ’round the woods, maybe. But it would be better if they had a goal, someplace specific. That’s how old Fernie always planned their outings. He certainly wasn’t going to take her with him to the field . . . no way was she going to watch him wrestle the ewe.

  Her face fell and he wiped the scowl off his face. “I’ll tell you what, how about we go to the settlement and check on Nighean. I’d like to see how she is and try to get a warning to her. If she drinks all the milk she can by tomorrow, maybe she’ll be all right.”

  Micol kept her expression serious but Domnall could see the anticipation just below the surface. If he was going to keep up with her, he’d better get a couple of hours of sleep first. He stood up with a grunt. She scrambled to her feet as well. Tam grinned.

  “Not yet,” said Domnall with a twitch of a smile. “Meet me at moonrise. I’ve got some things I need to sort out before then. I’ll catch up with you later, Tam.”

  He strode purposefully into the cover of the trees without looking back. Once out of sight, he found a quiet clearing and soaked up an hour of sunshine before slinking back into the Sithein to find a bed.

  * * *

  Micol looked ready to burst by the time Domnall met her in front of the Sithein in the dark. He pointed the way and she ran ahead before doubling back to walk with him. Domnall was exhausted just chasing behind her.

  An owl screeched as they walked past in the cold and damp night. The mist made his joints ache and his arms were still sore from lugging the babe back to the Sithein the other night. By rights, he should be in the kitchen with a hot drink and a roaring fire, not out in the night working hard while others slept. But watching Micol cheered him: she slipped through the trees as quiet as an adder and followed him to the stream.

  Still, he motioned her to keep quiet as they crept along the banks through the huts. With a quick hand gesture, he signaled the right hut and clambered the back wall. As he heaved himself onto the roof, he discovered Micol already up there, unable to keep the smile off her face. Too clever by half, she was. He crawled along the turf and hung his head over to look through the crack. The house was silent. Everyone was asleep. He waved Micol over to have a look.

  She hung upside down, her hair falling like autumn leaves. He inched closer and whispered close to her ear. “See Nighean, there in the cot?”

  Micol nodded. Her hair smelled of lavender and berries. Domnall pulled himself back up onto the rooftop and took a deep breath. Micol turned towards him, her eyes large and sparkling in the moonlight. “I can’t believe we’re really here, on a human hut, watching over a changeling. It’s like I’m living in a song instead of just learning the notes.”

  Domnall laughed. He still remembered exactly how that felt, although it had been centuries since his first outing. “Do you want to go into the hut?”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Micol, scouting is never safe. If you want safe, help out in the kitchens.”

  He hopped down without waiting for a response. A quick scan of the area showed no movement. He inched around the hut to the front door, scanning the village as he moved. A rustle behind him told him that Micol was following. Good. If she couldn’t take risks, she was useless to the Sithein.

  He pushed open the door slowly, watching for any movement of the hide. If he could warn Nighean, she might be able to get some extra milk before tomorrow night. He tiptoed to the cot and peeked in. She twitched in her sleep, covered with a light sheen of perspiration. Domnall stroked her cheek softly. Her face twitched but she didn’t wake. He reached out again, touching her shoulder. She moaned and rolled away, kicking at the blankets in her sleep. He whispered her name but although she tossed again, she didn’t wake. He shook her harder.

  Nighean sat up with wild eyes, rearing away from Domnall, screeching in terror. Domnall clamped his hand over her mouth but it was too late. Her shriek echoed through the village. She scrabbled back, unclear of her surroundings or why he was there. He heard stirring in the other room.

  “Don’t speak,” he snapped. “You’re safe with the amulet on! Just stay there. Don’t move.”

  He ran out of the hut, Micol right behind him. They slipped out and froze on either side of the entrance. He didn’t dare close the door but hoped that half-awake, the humans would not look around. He heard footsteps and then silence.

  If they were lucky, the mortals might dismiss the shriek, explain it away as a baby’s wail.

  The mother’s voice didn’t sound half-asleep. “That was no animal,” she said. “The door is open. And the bairn isnae right. Look at it staring. Those eyes!”

  Domnall exhaled in a rush, mentally begging Nighean to either cry or feign sleep. Heavy footsteps came into the room, the woman’s mate. Someone closed the front door. Domnall crept around the side of the house and climbed back up to the roof to see.

  The woman stood over the crib, her face hard. When she finally spoke, it was in a horrible ragged voice. “Nae one o’ mine,” she said. “Nae one o’ mine, he’s one o’ the devil. He’s not our Malcolm.” The male stumbled bleary-eyed towards her.

  The game was up. They had to get Nighean away from the mortals, right now. “Micol,” Domnall hissed. “Run, run back to the Sithein as fast as you can. Get the human babe and get it here, any way you can. Fast!”

  Micol clambered down and fled into the woods.

  The woman turned her back on the crib, making the sign of the cross. Domnall rubbed his eyes, as if he could change the image in front of him. When he opened them, she was stabbing the poker into the ashes, bringing the red coals back to the top. Dragon’s teeth, Micol would never get back in time.

  “No, Mora, it can’t b
e,” her mate said. Domnall nodded at him encouragingly. As long as he kept looking at the babe with the unfocused eyes of assumption, they had a chance. “What are you doing? Dinnae harm the bairn.”

  “Look at those eyes, man. Look at that face. That’s nae bairn of ours!” She threw kindling onto the fire and used the bellows until the fire flared up.

  Nighean lay in the cot, her eyes glazed. She didn’t seem to understand the danger she was in. She couldn’t possibly run away, so weak with fever. Not without help.

  The woman squinted into the cot. “Not ane of mine,” she hissed. “Where’s my wee one, you monster? Bring back the bairn or ye’ll burn.” She began to drag the heavy cot towards the fireplace.

  “No!” The man pulled her away. “I’ll not let you harm the bairn.”

  “It’s not our Malcolm, don’t you understand? It’s a monster, feeding from my breasts, killing our own wee boy.”

  The man held her. “Let me get the priest. He’s down at the mill, just past the crossroads. Maggie said. Let me get him first, he’ll know the truth, you know he will.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” she hissed, but when she saw the stricken look on his face, she stopped struggling against him. “Quickly, then. Tell him they’ve stolen our Malcolm, we’ve got to get him back.”

  Domnall shrank into the shadows as the man ran past. At least he’d bought Micol some time. Only the hope of getting her own babe back stayed the mother’s hand. Domnall stared into the darkness. How could he raise her hopes, make her wait? He started tapping on the turf, ready to run off. When he peeked around the crack again, the mother was staring straight up. “Who’s there?”

  Domnall scurried down to the stream and came back with a sporran full of pebbles. He dropped one down the small hole he’d made. It skittered across the floor and the woman spun around, staring wildly. “Bring me my Malcolm back and I’ll not burn this one,” she hissed.